


Heaven and Hell Were Words to Me

by Ink_Dancer



Series: Cowboy and Peril [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Assumed-Unrequited Romantic Love, Explicit Conversations about Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Napoleon dealing with PTSD, POV Napoleon, POV Third Person Limited, PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, follows events directly post-movie up to the events of 'like sleep to the freezing'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Dancer/pseuds/Ink_Dancer
Summary: After Rome, Napoleon's fucked up. That's about the size of it.He's handling it, more or less. Illya and Gaby help him do that.





	Heaven and Hell Were Words to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's "Work Song."  
Part 2 of "Cowboy and Peril," chronologically Part 1. This also coherent enough to standalone if you'd like, though that means no resolution to the gay tension. (I do apologize for making the parts one and two be chronologically wrong, it just feels better based on how I wrote them.)

The mission after Rome promised to be light and breezy, for spy standards, which was damn good. Napoleon needed a little time to rebuild his sense of self after the shitshow that was Rome. 

He felt like the entire world had been tugged out from under him, one lousy day at a time. He’d thought that his first two times meeting Illya Kuryakin were the strangest moments of his life, and he was deeply, deeply mistaken. That whole week was one blur of insanity.

Napoleon had never felt more like shit than when he was standing in that hotel room, watching Illya start to pull a gun on him. Physically, sure—he felt like he’d been on the _Diadema_ when it blew—but also emotionally. Illya, despite his intimidating size, had an expressive face that made him hard to betray. And even though Napoleon hadn’t actually betrayed him (in fact the opposite), it had hurt a surprising amount to so clearly make Illya upset. Rome was a nightmare, and for a short and alarming moment, he fully considered dying for that stupid fucking disc.

And then he’d thrown Illya his watch. And they’d burned the disc together, because why the hell not. They’d saved each other’s lives, up was down, down was up, might as well go all in. And then Waverly had come, and now they were a semi-permanent team…it made Napoleon’s head ache just thinking about where he’d been the week before all this shit started.

But now they were in Istanbul, and both Gaby and Illya were resolutely going about everything as if it was totally fine and that they were in the same position as when the Rome mission had started, that nothing had changed. (Napoleon had the electrical burns to prove otherwise.)

And now UNCLE had been tasked with surveillance. There was a man in this city named Ozan Demir who Waverly was concerned had somehow been given access to space program plans from the U.S. Nothing with nuclear consequences, but Waverly was concerned he’d try to sell his secrets to the USSR and start some sort of international incident. 

So they were watching him. Seeing who he talked to. Deciding if, in fact, he had any papers at all like what Waverly thought he had. 

It was Napoleon’s turn on watch. It was the midnight shift, when they watched his house from a warehouse across the street. After only a few days, they’d fallen into a pattern: Napoleon watched the house from when Demir went to bed until he woke up, Gaby and Illya followed him throughout the day, and then Illya, all by his lonesome, kept an eye on him in the evenings—which either involved camping out to watch or more following outside the house. 

It was boring as hell, and Napoleon found himself sleepy and irate almost all the time. He was jealous, in particular, of Illya and Gaby, who actually had companionship for their part of this stakeout business. He didn’t tell them, though. He didn’t want to bother anybody. 

Napoleon rather liked not having them privy to the fact that he wasn’t sleeping. 

The next day, they finally all sat down together when Gaby and Illya got back from a day of glorified stalking. Napoleon pretended to just be waking up. Illya and Gaby told him what they’d seen that day. “I think he has something,” Gaby said, pouring herself a glass of wine. She was off the clock for the day, she could afford it.

Illya grunted, his arms crossed. “I am not so sure. He has done nothing suspicious.”

“That in itself is suspicious.” Napoleon rubbed the bridge of his nose, scraping his thumbs over the corners of his eyes. If he could just alleviate their itching, he could _focus_. “You never know what someone’s hiding.”

“There is no way to be sure,” Illya said resolutely. 

“Yeah, there is.” Napoleon had been building up to this conclusion for a little while now, and finally felt overwhelmed and tired enough to voice it. “I can break in, snoop around.”

Gaby and Illya were both silent, and Napoleon watched as they exchanged a quick look. Then Gaby made a little tilted face and nodded at him over her wineglass. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Illya sighed explosively. “You have no sense of safety,” he groused, but Napoleon noticed he didn’t expressly protest.

“So tonight?” Napoleon pointed between them, already edging backward toward his room to look for his tools. “He’s leaving again soon, right? Peril, you can tail him, and Gaby can spot me. It’ll be fine!”

“Sure, Cowboy.” Illya shook his head and moved across the room toward his gear.

“I’ll help get ready,” Gaby said, following Napoleon.

Ten minutes later, Illya slipped out the door to follow Demir, bidding them good luck over his shoulder. Napoleon felt a pang as he went, something he’d been getting in his stomach around Illya ever since he’d seen the big Russian appear before him in Rudi’s horror basement. He ignored it, as he had for that intervening time. Gaby set up shop with communicators and binoculars by their specified stakeout window, and Napoleon waited a full sixty seconds before sneaking out the door as well.

Demir’s house was nice, and Napoleon allowed himself time to stop and admire the artwork he had lying around. He even reached out with gloved hands for a marvelous little jeweled bust that could definitely be fenced within twenty-four hours and would be easy to carry, but Gaby spoke in his ear before he could touch it. _"Illya told me that Demir has a safe in his second-floor office. He's seen him use it in the evenings."_

"Copy," Napoleon said good-naturedly, dropping his hands. He only cast one longing look over his shoulder at the bust as he went. 

Before he went upstairs, he made a cursory pass around the first floor, running fingers over walls and carefully rifling through drawers. He didn't find anything, and wasn't surprised by that. Upstairs it was. 

He walked on the balls of his feet, keeping to the edges of the stairs and close to the walls to avoid creaks. It felt good to be in motion, to be using more of his brain, to be secure in his old skills. His fingers skimmed the walls as he passed, checking his balance.

Instead of wandering on the second floor, he beelined for the office. It was a small room, with a window facing the house he and his partners had been squatting in. Napoleon waved through the open window, knowing Gaby could see him, even if he couldn't see her.

A quick circle of the room didn't give him much, just two locked drawers in the desk and nothing hidden behind the paintings. Screwing his mouth up, Napoleon knelt to work on the locks.

_"What are you doing?"_ Gaby asked in his ear.

Napoleon rolled his eyes but kept his voice even. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" She was looking right at him, because the desk was back-to the window; he could almost feel the weight of her gaze on the back of his neck.

_"It looks like you're wasting time. The safe is behind the bookshelf on your right."_

Napoleon got the drawers open and dug through them, finding nothing except a slightly out of place bottle of indeterminate pills. "Oh, and you couldn't give me that extremely helpful information before now? You were just going to let me search around like an idiot?"

_"That's what you're supposed to be good at. Not my fault you didn't find it."_

Grumbling, Napoleon went to the bookcase and took out handfuls of books to get them out of the way. Sure enough, the resulting gaps revealed a skinny black wall safe, built to fit perfectly between the rows of books. 

With the shelves in the way, it was at an awkward angle for cracking. Napoleon tried to re-angle his shoulders to shove his head between them, but it was a no-go. Luckily, it was a very simple combo safe. Not the safe of someone holding space program secrets, and Napoleon said so even as he reached for his tools. 

_"If that's so, why's he hiding it in such an obscure place?"_ Gaby mused.

"Beats me." Napoleon heard a drop loud enough that he really didn't even need his equipment, and snorted at it. "Why don't you think on it and get back to me."

The safe opened under his touch just a few moments later, and he shone a flashlight in. There was a small pile of nice-looking jewelry, a file clearly labeled as banking documents, and a thin sheaf of printed photos in a folder.

Napoleon pulled out both folders and flipped through the banking documents. They were exactly what they were labeled as. He put the file back and swept his hand into the deep corners of the safe. There was nothing hiding, nothing that had slipped back. "There's nothing in here that could be holding anything illicit," he said, turning back to the little folder of pictures. "No disks, no folders big enough…"

He trailed off, his eyebrows going up as he thumbed through the photos. He would certainly classify them as illicit, but in a very different way. "Isn't our man married?" he asked.

_"Yes. She's been out of the country visiting family this whole week,"_ Gaby said. _"What does that have to do with anything?"_

Napoleon cleared his throat. "These are not pictures of Mrs. Demir." In fact, every picture was of a different woman, each one of them completely nude and lustily smiling at the camera. There were at least two dozen.

Gaby seemed to get the gist of what he was looking at from his tone, and he heard her giggle in his ear. _"This might be why he seemed shifty,"_ she said. _"Going places to meet all these women, sneaking around his wife, keeping secret photos in his office…"_

"You might be right." Napoleon swallowed and gingerly put the photos back. "And there's no evidence to suggest he's engaging in illegal activity, let alone spywork. Those facts combined… I think Demir is innocent." His eye caught on the pictures again as he closed the safe, and he wrinkled his nose. "Well, innocent for our purposes, at least."

There was a shuffling noise on Gaby's end, and suddenly Illya's voice was in his ear, low and urgent. _"Demir has returned, Cowboy."_

Napoleon swore colorfully and scooped the books back onto the shelf, taking care that they were in the right order. "You couldn't give me some more goddamn warning?"

_"He went in the entrance we have no view on,"_ Illya said. He sounded very calm, except for a little undercurrent that Napoleon couldn't name. He wondered idly if it was concern for his wellbeing. _"I came to tell Gaby as fast as I could."_

"Gee, thanks for going as fast as you can," Napoleon sniped. He could hear footsteps on the stairs, and quickly understood that his options for exit were severely limited. The top of the stairs had a direct line of sight into the office. 

With one darting glance around to make sure that everything was in its proper place, Napoleon hopped up on the windowsill. _Thank God it's supposed to be open_.

Napoleon shimmied through the narrow gap in the open window and twisted so he was facing it, feeling the cool night air on his skin. He had officially broken a sweat, and he grit his teeth as he grabbed the sill with his hands and slowly, painfully, lowered himself until he was hanging there by his fingertips. Like a horrendous, backwards pull-up.

He heard the door creak open above him. His breath was coming a little quick, and his fingers were already aching. His hands felt slick in his gloves. Both Illya and Gaby were chattering in his ear, but his pulse was too loud for him to catch what they were saying.

A shadow fell over the window as Demir came toward it, and Napoleon had to make a split-second decision between getting seen and letting go. So, obviously, he released his cramping fingers and fell two stories.

He was in an inopportune position for falling, but he did his best to roll on impact. His landing jarred his left knee, and when he tried to get it up, it buckled. 

So he laid there and watched Demir's shadow come and go. "Come and get me," he sighed into his earpiece. 

Just a few minutes later, Illya came to fetch him. 

He slung Napoleon's arm over his broad shoulders and supported him back to their little base. Napoleon's leg hurt with a dull ache that made him think it was fine, but once he put weight on it, pain would shoot up through his knee and he'd slump back against Illya. "Thanks, Peril," he mumbled as they crossed the threshold. He got only a nod in response. 

He absently acknowledged that the only other times he'd had this much physical contact with Illya were when they were truly saving each other's lives. It was a nice change of pace, he decided, not being in immediate danger for this.

As soon as they were inside, Illya released him. Napoleon limped his way into the kitchen and sat at the table, prodding at his knee. 

"You okay?" Illya asked gruffly.

Napoleon looked up at him and smiled. Illya's eyebrows were pinched in his customary scowl, but he seemed legitimately concerned. His arms weren't crossed, at least. His voice held a similar tone to when he'd found Napoleon in that dank basement with Rudi.

His smile faded at that thought. Napoleon looked back down at his knee. "Yeah, I'm all right." And truth was, he had been doing better—his mind had felt clean and clear for the first time since Rome while he'd been breaking and entering. But now, he was reminded again.

Still, Illya fetched Napoleon a bag of ice and placed it on his knee with very gentle fingers. Napoleon murmured his thanks, his chest twinging a little in a way that had nothing to do with pain or shellshock or memories of electric shock. It was the same thing he'd started to feel when he'd realized that despite everything, Illya had come back for him. 

Gaby broke the moment by bursting in and telling Illya what Napoleon had found. After a brief discussion, they came to the collective conclusion that Ozan Demir was not a criminal (although he was a _serious_ adulterer) and they had no more need to watch him. Gaby contacted Waverly that night, and he immediately assigned them a new mission—he was sending them to Cairo.

Napoleon worked on his stiff knee and watched Illya out of the corner of his eye. Time to move on. 

* * *

Right away, Napoleon knew that Cairo was going to be more...complex.

For one thing, Waverly met them at the Istanbul airport and flew with them, which he decidedly had not done after their first mission. Last time, he had given them the Demir file and left them to their own devices. Napoleon had a feeling this was going to be a little tougher.

"There's a gala happening at the Italian embassy in Cairo tomorrow night," Waverly said, clasping his hands together as he surveyed his little ragtag team. The three of them were sitting in a row with Gaby in the middle, showcasing varying levels of exhaustion and vague annoyance.

"Question," Napoleon said immediately, not giving his boss time to finish. Gaby gently swatted him, and Illya let out a barely-audible snort—but when Napoleon looked at him, he was looking intently at Waverly.

"Yes, Solo?" Waverly pinched the bridge of his nose.

"If we hadn't finished with Demir today, what would you have done about this gala?"

"Only taken two of you," Waverly said readily. "As it stands, I am quite glad that the circumstances turned out the way they did. Will you let me keep talking now?"

Napoleon waved his hand affirmative.

"Thank you. As I was saying, gala at the Italian embassy. I have intelligence to suggest that there are British weapons' plans being hidden there, intended to be sold to the highest bidder. Since everything in that building has diplomatic immunity, down to the houseplants, the official channels can do nothing—I need you to steal them. Obviously using the gala as a cover."

"That's it? Just steal them?" Gaby asked. She sounded relieved.

"Without getting caught," Waverly said, as if that wasn't obvious.

They started going over the finer points of the plan, but Napoleon zoned out a bit. He tried to relax, but the tension wouldn't come out of his shoulders. He didn't like that it was the Italians. He wasn't ready to be back Italian soil yet, even if it was just an embassy. 

Cairo was hot. The three of them were sweaty and sniping at each other by the time they got to their hotel. None of them even stopped to appreciate the fact that they got a _hotel_ this time, a significant upgrade.

They got to sleep, though, and Napoleon actually managed to pass out in the room between Illya's and Gaby's (they had three in a row, all adjoining) and properly sleep for the first time in days. He woke up twice from nightmares, and the second of them left him briefly in tears, but nobody noticed and he recovered quickly. 

He didn't go back to sleep after the second one, though. He pressed his palms into his eyes. Sleep was elusive and terrifying now, and it wasn't just because of the nightmares.

When Illya and Gaby woke up, the three of them gathered in Napoleon's room, and from there, it was a flurry of motion and overlapping discussion in three languages. They all got ready with ear pieces and hidden weapons and such first, discussing the plan as they worked. The gala was a fundraiser, with many Italian works of art being auctioned off. Gaby and Illya were posing as an art collector and her bored husband (which Napoleon considered typecasting on Waverly's part), and Napoleon was going as an art expert who had allegedly helped verify the pieces on sale and as such earned a ticket to the event. All of their assumed names were on the guest list, courtesy of Waverly, and their handler had ensured that nobody would question Napoleon's particularly flimsy cover. 

Once they were agreed on timing and signals and all, Gaby and Illya slipped out to get dressed. Napoleon pulled on his own suit, sighing as he readjusted his gear so it was inconspicuous. The building's blueprints had two possibilities for hidden rooms and one massive vault, so he had to be prepared. The large safe would be far more sophisticated than Demir's.

He was just tying his tie when Gaby burst back in, wearing a wine-red dress with a halter top. She looked fantastic, as usual, and she smiled at him as she worked on one of her earrings. "Is Illya still getting dressed?" she asked, finally getting the post of the earring through her skin and letting go triumphantly.

"Yeah." Napoleon tugged on his tie and straightened it in the mirror. "I'm sure he'll be done soon."

Gaby came over and took his tie from him, working on the knot herself. Napoleon didn't stop her, even though it was already straight. "We're worried about you," she said lowly, surprising him. "Both of us." 

This was the first time one of the others had truly acknowledged what had happened in Rome, how it had affected him. So, naturally, Napoleon tried to deflect.

"My leg's fine," Napoleon said, looking for the easy way out of the conversation. And his leg was fine—all it had taken was some rest and some ice and it was working just as it should.

"That's not what I mean," Gaby said, both scolding and gentle. She let go of his tie and tilted her head up at him. "You can tell us if you're not okay, all right? I know…" She trailed off, her hand ghosting toward his chest, where he still had electrical burns dark against his skin. 

"I'm all right," Napoleon said, lightly batting her hand away. "Okay? I'm fine."

"Okay." Gaby didn't sound remotely convinced, and if anything, she looked sadder now.

Napoleon ignored that, and luckily, Illya chose that moment to come in. "Are we ready to leave?" he asked. "We have five minutes."

"Yeah, we're good." Napoleon turned from Gaby and strode across the room for the door. "Shall we, my friends?"

He caught a worried glance and a weary shrug exchanged between Illya and Gaby as he turned away, and he pretended not to see.

* * *

Entering the gala felt like slipping into a familiar skin. Just like when he was sneaking around Demir's house, Napoleon felt like the cobwebs were being dusted from his mind, like he was shaking off the discomfort and shellshock he had been building up in the intervening days since Rome. (Had it only been days? It had been over a week, but not by much.)

He went through metal detectors with ease and ended up with a flute of champagne by a truly magnificent recreation of a Michelangelo. He watched the door with feigned disinterest until Illya and Gaby came in. 

They stayed separate in the ballroom, wandering and keeping an eye on each other. Napoleon watched with amusement as Illya and Gaby fake-bickered the whole time, Illya playing up his naturally sullen energy and Gaby taking on an air of a slighted and exasperated wife. It was always interesting to see which people would openly watch such dramatics and which would pretend not to.

Nobody approached Napoleon. He snacked on hors d'oeuvres and pretended to sip champagne, truly admiring the art. Out of the corner of one eye, he watched two guards who were posted by the door he needed to get to the offices. 

Finally, _finally_, they moved off to deal with a minor scuffle caused by Illya and Gaby, and Napoleon immediately put his glass down to wind his way as quickly as he dared to the door. He made eye contact with Illya as he put a hand on the knob, and received a nod. Then he slipped through.

It was quiet back here, and cool. He slipped on gloves now that he was out of sight and began his search. The locations of the potential secret rooms were on the same floor, two offices next to each other. Napoleon didn't know who they belonged to, but he felt reasonably certain that the owners would not be home.

In the first office, Napoleon found a lever in a bookshelf (not clever or new) that opened a thin wall panel. There was nothing in it that they needed, although he did find that the Italian government was pretty dirty. They all knew that, so he left the evidence there.

The second office was a little trickier, but gentle knocks on the paneling revealed a thick swath of hollow wall. Napoleon eased it open and found the same stuff as the previous one: random odds and ends that the Italians simply didn't want out in plain sight. He kept moving.

He reported his progress to Illya and Gaby. "Two down, one to go. The plans will be in the vault on the third floor, if they're here at all." He heard a quiet grunt in return, and surmised that they were engaged in conversation. "Please let me know if anybody's coming my way," he said as he began to jog upstairs. "I'll be very put out if I get shot tonight. This is a nice suit."

He heard a little _snrk_ that sounded like Gaby trying to smother laughter, which made him grin as he kept going.

The vault was two floors up, in what turned out to be a small library. The texts were in Italian, and Napoleon ran his gloved fingers over the spines as he passed by. The vault was in plain sight, taking up half of a wall, and Napoleon set to cracking it. This one was quite complicated, as he anticipated, and was for sure the location he'd been looking for. He was fully focused, engrossed in the meditative nature of the task at hand.

He was so focused, in fact, that he didn't hear the footsteps behind him.

Instead, he noticed his new company when a gunshot rang out and a bullet carved a groove out of his upper right arm on its way to bury in the wall. Cries from Illya and Gaby went up in his earpiece, but he didn't hear them clearly. 

"Jesus—shit—" Napoleon clapped a hand over the wound and turned, stunned, to face the intruder. A large man with a gun and a mustache was standing there, and Napoleon knew he'd missed on purpose. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked in uneven English.

_"I am coming, Cowboy. Almost there,"_ Illya said in his ear.

"<<I'm just doing maintenance,>>" Napoleon said in Italian. This was a very obvious lie, because he was wearing gloves and was actively cracking the safe. But it was enough to make the guard pause and frown at him. 

Then he shook his head and lifted the gun, aiming it squarely at Napoleon's forehead. "<<We were warned about you,>>" he said, joining Napoleon in Italian. "<<Goodbye, little thief.>>"

Napoleon closed his eyes.

There was a loud banging noise and Napoleon flinched, but nothing happened. He cracked an eye open to see, to his surprise, Illya standing over the now unconscious guard. "You okay?" he asked. One of his hands had the tremor going.

"I'm all right," Napoleon said, grinning sunnily as if he hadn't just briefly accepted the fact that he was going to die. Blood ran over his fingers, leaking out of his wound in sheets. The bullet had grazed a vein.

Illya noticed and his eyebrows drew together, but his hand stopped shaking. "You're hurt," he murmured, and came closer.

Napoleon stopped breathing when Illya got close, watching him blankly as he tugged the tie off his neck and tied a makeshift tourniquet. "It's not a major artery," Napoleon managed, wincing when Illya jostled him. Helpful he might be, but gentle he was not. At least, not right now. Napoleon had felt Illya's gentleness before, when he'd carefully lifted Napoleon out of Rudi's chair. Where was it this time?

"Is still better to do this," Illya said firmly. Indeed, the blood slowed to a trickle.

"I need to finish this," Napoleon said, turning back to the safe. He felt Illya's hands fall away. "Thank you for...coming."

"You are welcome." Illya moved away, presumably to search the guard. "Nobody else is coming. Nobody heard the shot downstairs. But guards seem suspicious." Napoleon heard him crack the gun open to check on the bullets. "Gaby has gone. I'll stay with you."

"Okay," Napoleon said softly. Cracking the vault was harder one-handed, but he managed. Inside he found a cache of art, including many pieces that looked like Nazi plunder. Hidden amongst these were documents, and he quickly found the weapons plans. As he stepped back out of the vault, his fingers twitched to steal some of the art, but he was bleeding too much and it was not what he was here to do. He sighed sadly at a Degas before looking away.

He left blood on the floor and across the vault's door, the glove he was using still covered in it, but he didn't get any on the art. He turned to Illya and jerked his head at the folder. "Snag that, will you? I don't want to get blood all over Waverly's precious documents."

Illya picked up the folder and tucked it away after a cursory examination, sparing only a glance for the art behind them. "Ready to go?"

"Yes." Napoleon led the way to the door, and together they snuck out a back door, Illya subduing two other guards along the way. Once they were out in the night, Napoleon started to relax again, not feeling quite so shaken by the scene in the little library. Still…

"That guard who shot me, he said they were warned about me, about us," Napoleon said as he and Illya jogged down darkened streets in search of their hotel. He looked down—he was still leaving quite a trail of blood.

"Warned?" Illya asked. Napoleon couldn't make his face out very well in the dark, but his expression looked stormy.

"Guess we'll have to ask Waverly about that." Napoleon spotted their hotel and sighed in welcome relief, and together he and Illya went in a service entrance and found their way back to their rooms.

Gaby was waiting for them in Napoleon's room, and she exclaimed over the blood covering him. "I know, I know," he said, lowering himself into a chair with a soft groan. "I ruined my nice suit."

That made her laugh, at least. She set to working on the wound, insistently prodding him along with her ministrations. He winced as she undid Illya's tie, which was now soaked through in his blood. Then she made him get out of the ruined jacket and shirt and splashed some disinfectant in the wound (making him nearly bite through his lip) before sewing it up. "It's just a graze," she said reassuringly. "But it's better to be safe than sorry."

Throughout all of this, Illya stood by the bed with the plans in his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist. Napoleon's blood was staining his fingers, and he had left some splotches of it on the folder. 

Finally, while Napoleon was nursing a drink and watching Gaby finish dabbing the blood off of his fresh stitches, Waverly entered without ceremony. The three of them graciously waited until he closed the door behind him before they all began shouting. 

"What the hell even happened back there—"

"They were _warned_, how did you let that happen—"

"Napoleon has been _shot_—"

Waverly held his hand up, and they all unwillingly subsided. They were too used to authority not to do so, but Illya at least looked furious. Fortunately, Waverly looked properly guilty. "A mistake was made," he said, clearly enunciating—probably so they wouldn't make him repeat himself. "I gave some select Cairo police higher-ups a discreet warning about our operation, to make sure they didn't step on our toes. It looks like they informed our Italian friends."

"Oh, you think?" Napoleon scoffed. "Thanks. Thanks a lot." He got up and stalked across the room to his bag, yanking out a new shirt and pulling it on with immense difficulty. The stitches pulled. 

Illya thrust the folder into Waverly's hands. "Take it," he snapped. He seemed like he was going to say more, but something made him pause, and then he vanished into his own room with only a glance at Napoleon.

Waverly turned his head to him, but Napoleon chuckled and shook his head. "Don't look at me, English," he said, trying unsuccessfully to button his shirt with one hand. "We'll talk to you tomorrow."

An appealing look to Gaby didn't get him anywhere, and he left with a sigh. Gaby sat back down on the couch and picked up Napoleon's discarded glass, taking a sip.

She seemed so close with Waverly—it was startling to see her take Napoleon and Illya's side on this. _Good for her_, Napoleon thought. _He nearly got us all killed_.

It would have been entirely one thing if they themselves had messed up, had made a mistake that resulted in this almost-disaster. In fact, Napoleon expected that kind of thing, after Rome. But it was _quite_ another to have your handler so completely fuck up a mission like this. And Napoleon knew that despite his shakiness after Rome, despite the foreignness of being part of a team and the disconnect all three of them were experiencing with the concept, they were all comfortable with Alexander Waverly as their handler because they really did trust him. It was part of why Gaby pulled the stunts she did in Rome, why Illya and Napoleon even agreed to be here. They trusted him to keep them safe. 

Napoleon sighed heavily as he continued to fumble with the buttons. They'd go back to normal tomorrow. There wasn't a lot of ground for them to stand on against Waverly, and they were all alive and the mission was even successful. So there wasn't a lot to argue about, except for the line of dull pain on his arm. 

Gaby checked his stitches one more time. "I'm going to bed," she said, doing up the buttons on his shirt for him. "Goodnight." She kissed his cheek as she went. Napoleon's face felt warm after.

He sat alone for a little bit, watched the light under the door to Gaby's room go dark. 

Illya's was still on.

Napoleon knocked before he could stop himself. He was lonely, and his arm hurt, and Illya had been so quiet recently… He couldn't help it.

Illya opened the door surprisingly slowly—Napoleon had expected him to jerk it open like he was annoyed. But instead, Illya looked rather soft as he looked at Napoleon around the edge of the door, his hair falling into his eyes a little. "Yes, Cowboy?"

He found himself at a loss for words. "I, uh." He shifted uncomfortably on the spot.

"Come play chess with me," Illya said.

Napoleon blinked. "Uh, yeah, sure." He stepped dumbly through the doorway and followed Illya over to a couple of chairs and a low table. Illya was wearing comfortable-looking pants and a sweater, his feet bare. _Soft_, Napoleon thought again. Not a word most people would apply to Illya.

He watched as Illya rearranged the chess pieces from the middle of a game against himself and spun the board so white was facing Napoleon. When Napoleon shot him a quizzical look, Illya smirked and said, "I am very good. Head start for you."

Snorting, Napoleon made a move.

"How is your arm?" Illya asked, moving a pawn.

"Much better now," Napoleon said honestly. And it was. It wasn't throbbing anymore. "Sorry I got your tie all bloody."

"Your clothes were bloodier than mine." He had a point there. Illya was quiet for another handful of moments as they played. "Your eyes were closed when I came in," he said, and Napoleon instantly knew what he was referring to. 

"I know." He didn't offer anything more than that, just moved a rook rather aimlessly.

Illya didn't make a return move, fixing Napoleon with a look. "He was going to kill you, and your eyes were closed."

"I know," Napoleon said again, a little more sharply. 

"You have been acting strangely," Illya said baldly. "Since Rome. In Istanbul. Here."

"You haven't actually known me that long." Napoleon swallowed. "You don't know what's strange for me and what's not."

"We know each other well enough." Illya shifted so he was sitting back in the chair. "I know you. Something is wrong."

The simplicity of his statements, the way he just said things as if they were indisputable fact, took the reflexive answers right out of Napoleon's head. He looked away, wishing Illya would make a goddamn move on the chessboard and he could pretend this conversation wasn't happening. "I've been off," he admitted finally. "But...I think I'm getting better."

Illya nodded slowly, contemplating this. "Okay," he said, sitting up again and reaching forward to move a piece. "You will tell me if you are not okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Napoleon turned back to the game, trying to think about his next move. 

"You will not accept death again?" Illya said quietly.

The breath wooshed out of Napoleon's chest. He didn't think Illya would be so direct about that. He wondered if he knew how close he was to hitting on the root of the matter, just at the wrong angle. He just looked at him, all thoughts of chess gone from his head. 

Illya didn't let up, his gaze calm but heavy. "Promise?"

Napoleon nodded jerkily. "Yeah, Peril, I promise."

They lapsed into silence as the game continued. It was an unfinished conversation, Napoleon could sense that. Illya was looking for more answers and more reassurance, but he seemed content for now. Napoleon was grateful to be left alone for a moment. Almost as grateful as he was of the fact that Illya asked in the first place.

They ended up playing game after game as the night wore on toward dawn. Illya won all of them.

* * *

After Cairo, Waverly felt badly enough about the mishap that he gave them a week off. His excuse was that they had worked three straight missions, the first of which had been the fight of their lives. Napoleon found that an acceptable reason as well.

He gave them the pick of where to go, with the caveat that the three of them had to stay together. In case something came up and he needed to find them all quickly, he said he preferred to have them be in the same place.

Gaby immediately voted for Paris, which Napoleon seconded. Illya grumbled about it, but acquiesced, as he was outvoted. Napoleon noticed that he didn't actually put forth a secondary suggestion.

Waverly put them up in a hotel right on the river, in a nice suite where they all had their own bedrooms that converged on a common living room with a wall full of huge windows and a balcony. When they arrived that night, Napoleon spent a few hours camped on the balcony watching the city lights. The Eiffel Tower glowed both in the sky and in the water's surface, and Napoleon tilted his head up to breathe in the breeze. 

The door behind him slid open, and Gaby came out with two glasses of wine. She silently handed one to him and sat down in the chair to his left, leaning toward the balcony railing to watch the city go by underneath them. "How are you?" she asked.

"Better." Napoleon sipped the wine, listened to cab horns blare. His arm barely hurt now, just itched.

"Good." Gaby let out a little contented hum and swished her feet back and forth. "I love this city. I've only been here once, but...it was good."

Napoleon smiled at her. "I've always loved it here," he agreed. "How's Peril?"

Gaby let out an ugly snort. "He's sleeping, I think. I believe his plan is to stay in the hotel all week."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Napoleon took another sip of wine under the Parisian night sky as Gaby giggled next to him, and plotted on how to get their stubborn partner out and into the streets come tomorrow. 

But when the next day came, both of them were surprised to find Illya game to explore the city with them. Delighted, Gaby and Napoleon took him everywhere: to museums, libraries, landmarks, restaurants, up the Eiffel Tower, everywhere they could think of. It was fun, to romp around like a tourist and blend into the thousands upon thousands of people that lived and visited here. (It felt so good to not be on a mission. It felt _really_ good to just enjoy a city, to just be somewhere without there being stakes. Napoleon was good at his job, and he more or less liked doing it, but it was nice to see how the world turned and how people acted in the normal world.)

A couple of times, purely by accident, they wandered into some little streets or districts full of gay clubs. Napoleon had been there before—he had never tried to deny his attraction to men, and often places like this were a bit of a sanctuary for him—but he had never intended to bring Illya here. Gaby was, of course, unfazed. Illya, for his part, drank in the scenery with the same sharp curiosity as always. He looked around with an open expression, interest plain on his face. One time, when he politely moved out of the way of a dolled-up drag queen, Napoleon distinctly heard Illya mumble "Fascinating."

He didn't press the issue. Neither did Gaby, although Napoleon wasn't sure she paid as much attention to the incident as he did. He found himself more or less impressed, and relieved. If Illya's first instinct wasn't to take offense or be angry, then maybe...

Napoleon tried not to think about it as much as he wanted to.

At night, they didn't go out, because they were all still so drained and Napoleon could sense Illya's discomfort with certain parts of Parisian nightlife. So they stayed in the suite and lounged on the balcony all together, talking and drinking well into the night.

They started to coalesce. None of them talked about it, but they could all feel it. After Rome, Napoleon knew he trusted Illya with his life (which was terrifying), and Gaby too, with a little more hesitation. But now he was starting to really enjoy them. Trust them with _more_ than just keeping him alive.

As drawn to Illya as he was, he found himself pulled in by Gaby's company. He understood why Illya had been so entranced by her at first—she was sharp, and witty, and had an air of old wisdom about her. She was unpredictable and smart, and he felt like her gaze could pierce his skull to see what he was thinking and what he was made of. She understood him, understood them both. And still she was kind to them, and trusted them. It was a strange, wonderful feeling.

As the week drew on, Napoleon found himself totally relaxing into their team dynamic. _This can work_, he thought. _We're a really good team_. It was like a shock to his system, a jolt through his old penchant for working alone—but a good one, a welcome one.

And then, on their last night in Paris, Gaby begged off their usual hang-out because she wanted to get some good sleep before they went off on their next mission. Undeterred by such base impulses as sleep, Napoleon was determined to stay up. In all honesty, he saw the wisdom in sleeping properly. He had been sleeping a little better lately, but he didn't feel like pushing it right now.

So he stayed out on the balcony, with whiskey instead of wine, and watched night fall over Paris one more time. 

Illya joined him, to his surprise, after just a few minutes. He brought his own glass, and they sat together in the quiet for a little while, the only noise drifting up from below. Napoleon was content to watch the city go by and the lights flicker and listen to people go about their lives below. And he was content to watch Illya.

Illya, who was looking around with a crease between his brows, looking exquisite and thoughtful. His facial structure looked strong and statuesque in the low light, and Napoleon found his gaze catching on the column of his throat when he swallowed.

Yeah. At this point, now that he was feeling a little better and not like the world was falling apart around him, Napoleon had had the time to accept a certain fact. It had been quite apparent, and in fact he could pinpoint when it started: it had started when he'd been breathing hard in that electric chair and seen Illya's silhouette in the door's window. It had started when Illya had come in, looking positively murderous, and asked Napoleon in the gentlest, softest voice if he was okay. It had started when Napoleon first processed that Illya had come back for him, come to _save_ him, even though he didn't have to. Even though he'd been _so sure_ that nobody was coming. 

Napoleon drained his glass in one go and tried very hard not to look at him, just for a few seconds. It was hard. His eyes were like moths drawn to Illya's flame. _So it's for sure_. He was falling in love with Illya.

Completely interrupting his thoughts, Illya tipped his chin up and asked, "Can we talk about your issues now?"

Napoleon sighed through his nose, trying to conceal his brief flash of panic before he realized what Illya was talking about and mentally switched tracks. "I mean, sure. If you want." He shrugged, looking down at his drink as he ran a finger around the rim. "I'm fine."

"You are better now," Illya conceded. "Better than after Rome, and better than in Cairo. But you are not sleeping well."

"Mm. Not really." Napoleon watched condensation run down the side of his glass. "What's your question?"

Illya sat back, fixing him with a piercing, pinning gaze. "The same as in Cairo, Cowboy. Something has rattled you. What is it?"

Napoleon had to look away, staring at the table without seeing it as he thought. This continuation of the Cairo conversation caught him a little off guard, if he was honest. But he knew Illya was just looking out for him, knew it even better after this week. So he looked up and said baldly, "Rome was too much for me."

Illya made a rolling _elaborate_ motion with his hand and didn't speak.

Closing his eyes, Napoleon heaved a sigh through his nose. "You've seen my file. You know what I've been through, more or less. You know I've...handled stuff like this before."

"Mm." Illya's hum of affirmation was quiet under the buzz of the world around them.

"This was different," Napoleon said quietly. "It's—it's not about the pain, although that doesn't help. It's just...I've never been so completely sure that I was going to die." He drained his glass, avoiding Illya's eyes. "I thought I was going to die down there. I was _really_ sure." 

And more to the point, it was like Rudi had said—there was torture for information, and then there was torture for its own sake, for pain's sake, for _fun_. Napoleon had never experienced torture that was entirely the latter, and it had shaken him to his core. Because he had no cards to play. He'd had a long time to think about it, strapped to that chair. A long time to run the numbers and his options and come up with the fact that he was entirely at the mercy of this sadist who liked nothing better than the pained noises he was eliciting. The cold conclusion that he wasn't going to make it out, that nobody was coming, and he was really stuck at the hands of this madman until his heart stopped beating. It had rattled him. And now...

"I haven't been able to shake that feeling since," Napoleon said, finishing his thought.

There was a beat of silence. Then Illya said, "You are alive." He didn't sound surprised by Napoleon's admission, more like something had been confirmed for him. "I came to get you. You lived."

"Yeah, I know." Napoleon screwed his mouth up and finally looked at Illya, who was frowning. "But in Cairo, I felt it again—I was just resigned." He shook his head. "It's fading, but I can't sleep sometimes—not because of the nightmares, but because I'm scared I just...won't wake up or something. And I don't know how long it'll be before I can really shake it and move on."

"That's okay." Illya was pensive, his eyebrows drawn together. "Better has many forms. We will keep you safe in the meantime." He paused. "And you can always talk to Gaby. She loves to talk about emotional things."

That startled Napoleon into a laugh, and Illya chuckled lowly with him. With that, they let the subject drop for good. Illya was satisfied, and Napoleon felt good having it off his chest. He really was getting better. 

The conversation moved on after that, to lighter things. Illya admitted readily that he liked Paris, had enjoyed himself here. It made Napoleon smile. They speculated about where they were going to be sent next, and Napoleon tilted his head back to squint at the sky. There were a couple visible stars, faint against the city lights.

After a while, Illya became quiet. Not a bad kind of quiet, just very thoughtful, like he was mired in his own mind. Napoleon let him sit as he stared into the middle distance, and eventually tapped his shoulder to announce that he was going to bed. Illya absently nodded in response.

As he went in, Napoleon spared one glance over his shoulder to see Illya had moved a little, putting his head in one hand and closing his eyes like he had a headache.

Napoleon didn't bother him, just kept going, slipping into his bedroom and closing the door. He'd more or less had enough emotional curiosity for one night, and if Illya was going to be so lost in his thoughts, he knew better than to disturb him. 

Despite what he'd said to Illya, he actually slept well that night. He only had one nightmare, and he woke up feeling well-rested. Which was a distinctly welcome change of pace. In fact, he fell asleep thinking of Illya, and how much he wanted to kiss away the thoughtful creases on his forehead. And he woke up thinking of Illya, and how grateful he was to have him in his life, in whatever way he could get him. 

* * *

After Paris, they moved on. Life as a team continued as usual. They went to exotic places and did secret things, usually succeeding and sometimes making dumb mistakes. They stayed safe, for the most part, and if somebody did get hurt it was usually Napoleon, most often with minor injuries.

Napoleon felt recovered from Rome fairly quickly after Paris. He stopped being scared to sleep, and even the nightmares went away. He felt alive again. And he fell more in love with Illya every day.

He was prepared to keep it in for as long as necessary. He loved their little ragtag team, and couldn't bring himself to put it at risk on a slim chance that Illya would be willing to forgive him for the way he felt. 

So he burned with it, long and quiet and subtle. These were the best times of his life, and he didn't even look at his electrical burn scars anymore. Life was good. He was in love with one of his only two friends in the world, but life was still good. 

He'd tell him someday. Just not now. He promised himself that night in Paris, as he was watching Illya look at the city. _Someday_. 

That was good enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> God, "Work Song" is so good for these two: "my babe would never fret none / about what my hands and my body done / if the lord don't forgive me / i'd still have my baby and my babe would have me / when i was kissin' on my baby / and [he'd] put [his] love down soft and sweet / in the low lamp light i was free / heaven and hell were words to me" ...like that's big Illya energy.  
Anyway! Hope this was fun for y'all. This is the shortest installment in the "Cowboy and Peril" series, and probably the least resolved. So hop on the train for part three if you're up for it!


End file.
